Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
Impulse Reality 080
[-------------------------------------------------------------------------]
-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-
[-------------------------------------------------------------------------]
____ ____ ____
_I_R_ | || |\ \
M E | || |/____/ Writer's Block
P A | || |\ \ ir file number 080
U L |____||____| |____| released 11.21.00
L I | || |\| | by Hikaru Chow
S T |____||____| |____| we're just fucking with your mind.
E Y even_god_reads_it
[-------------------------------------------------------------------------]
-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-oOo-
[-------------------------------------------------------------------------]
The sun is out. I unwind my blinds to let the sun light up my room
so I don't have to waste power. I walk around my house, get a wild cherry
Capri-Sun-maybe this will help me figure out what to write.
Five minutes later I still find myself watching the blinking thingy on Word.
Hum de dum.
'Little Johnny was lying in bed when he heard a thump above his
hea---' Delete, delete, delete. To cheesy, I wrote a story like that in the
third grade and all the kids laughed at me then. Here I am, off to stare at
the blank document once again.
The sun has now set; the house grows dimly lit as the six o' clock
news blares into the silent house. My mother calls me to come to dinner. The
dinner table once again silent, just like it always has been. The paper
rustles, my mother's jaw goes up and down in a rhythmic manner, and my mind
wanders trying to figure out what to write.
"Ai-ya you don't eat enough tonight!" scolds my mother in choppy
English.
"I'm fine Mom," I reply in choppy Vietnamese. You can't eat when you
have a lot on your mind.
And the table becomes silent once again. The paper rustles, my
mother's jaw chewing, and my mind wonders.
The TV no longer blares the top stories of the night, but instead has
been changed to a different channel that now blares in studio laughter.
Dinner ends and so does the show. From in studio laughter to Sunday night
cartoons. One show after the next, animation after animation, and still I
find myself unable to write anything on paper.
Time is catching up with me. The living room lights are off. The
dishwasher has finished whirling. Teeth being brushed and tonight's top
stories are being repeated once again by weary eyed news reporters.
There are tons of things I can write about.
Write for instance about how life would be if we walked on our hands
and greeted with feet. Or perhaps I can scrawl on paper a sappy love poem
with 'his eyes are like the shooting stars,' and 'love like the ocean.' I
can write a rant opposing something controversial or just plain rant about
how stressful it is to be an emotional teenager. There are my struggles and
obsessions, and I can even start writing about a character name Stu if my
brain felt like working.
The hours pass. The night becomes silent. Even the ants that invade
my house when we forget-or become lazy to clean the sink are asleep. The day
has ended and the wee hours of the next day have started. Still I attempt
to write something that won't seem so vapid or so long and drawn. My mind is
blank-just as it was in the beginning. Maybe I wasn't meant to write today.
So I bid my computer adieu. Maybe what I had to say in the first place as I
sat in front of my computer was absolutely nothing.
[-------------------------------------------------------------------------]
Copyright (c) 2000 IMPULSE REALITY PRESS - http://phonelosers.net/ir
[-------------------------------------------------------------------------]
